Metamorphosis
by Fox 85
Summary: The scars of the Company’s Level 5 run deep. One man attempts to rebuild a shattered existence. Another seeks revenge. Fate binds them together.
1. Caged

_**Metamorphosis **_

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**Disclaimer: **_**Heroes **_**is not owned by me. Unfortunately, this includes Sylar. **_Sigh_.

**A/N: This takes place after the pilot of season 3, but I'm not going to be fastidious enough to stick to any particular episode. I think any decisions regarding what I keep or reject from canon should be obvious enough, but where there are questions, I will be sure to answer them. **

**The rating is subject to change. **

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D-1 raises his head and blinks. The single light bulb above him crackles and sparks with the constant, slow drip of moisture over its surface. A puddle is forming on the concrete floor. His toes are getting wet.

He realizes it is a futile attempt, but that doesn't stop him from crawling to the other corner of the cell. He presses himself against the frigid wall and pulls his legs up to his chest. His eyes shut again. There is nothing to do but sleep and wait.

Sleep never comes. And so he waits.


	2. Now or Never

They come for him the same time every week. The cell lights are shut down. The door opens. D-1 doesn't even bother to look up any more.

His head cocks just slightly to the side. There are three of them—no—four this time. Strange. He hasn't put up any resistance for some weeks. He touches the barely-healed gash above his right eye. Bare fists versus gun barrels never really qualified as resistance anyway, he recalls with a grimace.

The puddle has now covered the whole of the cell's floor. D-1's still sitting in it—he has nowhere else to move—and his ass is freezing. He listens to the heavy boots slosh through the mess until they grab him and throw him against the floor.

He spits out the dirty water that enters his mouth. It has a sick, metallic taste. Like blood.

Gloved hands grip his wrists and twist them behind his back. He winces, but only for a moment. He's cuffed and then dragged upwards to his knees. They surround him on all sides.

The door opens, flooding the cell with light. The detainee blinks.

"He's not ready yet," growls the mechanical voice to his side. The corner D-1's mouth rises. He's grown somewhat fond of their euphemisms. In a sick, twisted way.

"We don't have much time," a feminine voice orders over his captor's radio. "_Now or never_."

D-1's head thrown to the side and held at an angle. The familiar snap against the syringe makes him tense. He stares into the shiny, black void of the nearest agent's helmet.

The sharp pain in his neck is almost unbearable. On cue, D-1's extremities begin to numb. But for a moment, before his vision dulls, he sees his reflection.

He'll be damned if he knows the face that stares back at him.

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**A/N: Feedback? Pretty please? **


	3. The Visitor

**A/N: Sylar makes his appearance! Also, a good chuck of this chapter is told through flashbacks. I hope the separation is clear enough.  
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**Thank you so much for the feedback! Keep it coming!  
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_All he had wanted was a cup of coffee._

_Maybe a slice of blueberry pie. _

_But certainly not this._

Sylar's arm is outstretched. Waves of bullets halt midair in unison. He holds back a smile. Funny how long it takes them to adapt. They had been playing this game for an hour.

At first, it was tranquilizer darts. Sylar glances momentarily at the five suited bodies lying around the room, multiple red feathers sticking out of their prone forms. He is quite sure that upon closer inspection, he would find a warning label "for licensed veterinary use only" on the darts' side.

He deserved better. Honestly.

Having ignored their fallen comrades, his attackers had moved on to tear gas. Curtsey of his run-in with Claire-bear, Sylar's eyes had merely stung. _Like a bitch._

A wave of his hand, add another two bodies to the count. _Oops._

But Sylar had to give them some credit after he redirected a 50-caliber round aimed at his chest. They meant business. Whether he was in pieces or not was apparently irrelevant.

His index finger gives an imperceptible twitch. The annexed bullets vibrate in the air. He glares at his targets.

* * *

_It was a run-down, family-owned diner. One of those that had been in that family for a generation too many, but still long enough to pass down a hell of a pie recipe. It was chosen place of Sylar's celebration. Or vacation. He didn't often stop to savor the moment. _

_He took a seat at the booth in the corner. Threw the short-skirted waitress a devastating half-grin. She had held his stare shamelessly. Not many people could do that. Not even those who didn't know what he was._

_She leaned forward against the table and purred something to him. Arched her back in a way that would have made Gabriel Gray pass out. Or do something else …undignified._

_He cleared his throat at the thought. "Black," he answered tersely. "Thanks." _

_

* * *

  
_

Sylar glances up at the camera in the corner. He decides not to destroy it. With a grin, he hurls the barrage of lead back at the shooters. Like dominos, they fall back. Undamaged, he guesses, eyeing the thick armor on their suits, but certainly stunned. Maybe the message would be clear this time.

* * *

_Sylar had leaned back against the worn leather of booth chair. He had a lot to celebrate. Before his unfortunate brush with the Shanti virus, he could have set off his own fireworks. Albeit, he recalls with a smirk, the more nuclear kind…_

_He resists kicking his feet up on the seat opposite of him. Regeneration was useful. Immortality was…exhilarating. Sylar had always known the cheerleader was holding out on him. _

_He caught the eye of the waitress again. She was talking to a gray-haired woman seated at the bar. His breath caught in his throat. The waitress smiled and returned to his table instantly. _

"_Can I get you anything else?" She paused. "A piece of pie, maybe?"_

_

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_

They shut the lights off. Despite his abilities, Sylar can't see in the dark any better than the rest of humanity. It's a rudimentary tactic on their part, but completely effective. He does quick mental math of the body count in the room. Sylar, seven… (ten, if he includes those he thinks are still alive). The bastards…one.

It's deathly quiet. His hands are loose at his sides. But for the first time, a thin trail of moisture runs down his forehead. He waits.

* * *

_Sylar opened and closed his mouth dumbly. His gaze kept moving back to the older woman. Oblivious, the waitress stepped right in his line of sight. _

"_Sir?" She raised an eyebrow._

"_How about a refill?" Sylar said flatly, wishing he had picked up x-ray vision somewhere along the way._

"_Oh, right. Sorry." Blushing, she pulled his cup over and tipped her coffee pot. A few stray drops landed on his hand. Holding back a few choice words, Sylar looked down as the angry, red spots gradually reformed into healthy skin. _

_The waitress stepped away. Sylar glanced up. The older woman at the bar was gone. _

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_

The door opens. Sylar hears shuffling at the front of the cell. He flexes his hands. This could be the chance he has been waiting for.

* * *

_The coffee sat untouched. Sylar stood up, his head pivoting. There she was. The older woman stepped out of the ancient phone booth and out the diner's door. He followed, to the protest of the waitress. _

"_Hey!" he called. The woman walked around the building's corner, out of his sight. He turned moments after her. _

_Bullets rang out. Sylar hit the wall with their force, his blood splattering against the brick. He looked down at his shirt, already soaked from his wounds.  
_

_More shots. He staggered. A trail of crimson flowed from his mouth._

"_That's enough!"_

_Sylar wasn't sure who said the command. His breath came out in raspy gasps. He stared at the stained dirt ground._

_A blurry figure grabbed his chin. Sylar blinked, trying to focus. Something sharp entered the back of his neck. He gasped. _

_Instead of being left unceremoniously to bleed out, Sylar was eased onto the ground. Darkness began to take hold, but not before he recognized the person standing over him._

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_

Without preamble, the lights turn back on. He blinks. Another round of faceless, armed lackeys filters through the doorway. Sylar rolls his eyes and prepares to part through them like Moses.

Suddenly, they shove someone forward. He hits the ground. _Hard._ Like cowards, they back off, guns drawn.

Sylar doesn't know how long the poor wretch lays prone before moving. Despite himself, he's riveted.

The young man slowly pushes himself off the ground. Moments later, he rises on shaky legs. Sylar squints. Tries to see past those long, black bangs. The visitor meets his gaze.

Past and present converge. A smile spreads across Sylar's face.

_"Hello, Peter."_


	4. Darkness

The silence between them becomes suffocating. Sylar's smile flattens.

D-1 takes a hesitant step back. His forehead creases. "Peter?" he repeats quietly. His voice is hoarse, almost unrecognizable.

Sylar raises an eyebrow. He wasn't expecting this. He glances back up at the camera. _What were they up to?_

_

* * *

_

Up in the control room, the rookie agent feels shivers run down her spine.

"Sir, he's looking at us again."

Every head in the room turns at her statement, save for one man. He continues to chew over case files in the corner.

"That's to be expected," he replies, flipping a page over.

"_But—_"

He sighs. A more seasoned agent would have recognized his dismissive tone. He sets the thick folder down on the chair and walks over to the agent. He looks over her shoulder at the monitor.

"Audio on?"

"Of course."

"And?"

The rookie bites her lower lip. "He…called D-1 by his given name."

"D-1's reaction?"

"He doesn't appear to remember." The agent swallows. Her voice lowers. "Then it was a success?"

"_That's none of your concern_," he snaps. He glares at the two figures in the monitor.

"Send this footage directly to me. Destroy any other copies."

"But that's not policy—"

He scowls. "Do I look like I give a damn about _policy_? Do what you're told or forfeit your job. Period."

The young agent blinks away the tears that threaten to well over.

"Yes, sir," she says quietly. She turns her attention back to the monitor. A moment later, the video feed goes static.

* * *

"You know me?" D-1 asks. "Is Peter my real name?"

Sylar ignores the question. He looks up at the camera and makes a grabbing motion with his hand. It pulls out of the wall, wires sparking. _That should piss them off._

He throws D-1 back against the wall with enough force to crack bones. A suffocating, invisible grip holds him there, his feet dangling several inches off the ground.

D-1's eyes go wide. "What are you d—"

"They'll come through that door again in a matter of seconds," Sylar interrupts. He raises his free hand and extends his index finger. "Do you know what comes next?"

He receives no answer. Sylar begins the cut. D-1 hisses under his breath.

"On the ground, now!"

_And the cavalry returns_, Sylar thinks with a sigh. He doesn't let his hold on Petrelli go, even as something pierces his side. Blood trickles, and then flows down his victim's forehead. He watches the familiar trail that it takes. _Over the brow, down the cheek._ It's almost beautiful.

Sylar's stops his cut. An eyebrow arches at the realization.

_Petrelli wasn't healing._

The order repeats, snapping him back to reality. Sylar ignores it. His head is hit from behind. He drops D-1 unceremoniously before falling to the ground himself. His vision swims. The butt of the gun comes down on the back of his head again.

Darkness.

* * *

The company wastes no time doping Sylar with enough drugs to take down an elephant. They have thirty minutes, best case scenario, before he fully recovers. And if there were any lessons to be learned from their encounters with Sylar, it was that he generally woke up in a _really _bad mood.

The senior agent watches dispassionately as D-1 is dragged back to his cell, barely conscious. He is in bad enough shape to warrant a call to the infirmary. The agent would have to run it by the higher powers.

"Sir?"

He's abruptly ripped from his musings. He steps aside as a group of company men pass. They have Sylar strapped to a gurney. A line runs from an IV to his arm, while a separate breathing tube goes to his nose. Guns are still drawn, even as Sylar lays (presumably) unconscious. It would have been almost humorous if the bastard wasn't so deadly.

The agent's cell phone goes off at his side. He looks at the screen and frowns. With a sigh, he goes the nearest elevator and punches the button for the top floor.

* * *

The resident queen of the Company sits at her desk (one that rivals her eldest son's Kennedy model) that overlooks the city. It's nearly four in the afternoon. She had always enjoyed watching the people below scurry like ants to get home, and today is no different. Pedestrians go about their business, blissfully ignorant of the price she has paid for their safety. _The price her family has paid._

She hears footsteps outside, and promptly turns toward the door. Folds her hands.

Angela Petrelli doesn't greet the agent with a smile. They were tools for the Company's use: cold, functional, and somewhat effective. Perhaps this one more than most.

The agent stands stiffly before her, his arms behind his back.

"I am told that Sylar is finally under our control."

"For the moment, ma'am."

"After months of detention, you were only just now able to restrain him."

"He took the bait. He was distracted. Your instincts were correct."

_Of course they were_, Angela thinks, but doesn't say so. If she had her way on everything, this institution would be run…_differently_. But she was nothing if not polite. She would step aside and let others make decisions—even mistaken ones—from time to time. She didn't like to clean up messes, but the respect that came from it was essential for survival.

"The tests are being run now?"

He nods.

"When will we have the results?" she inquires flatly.

"The scans should be complete any time now. With your permission, we'll proceed to—"

"_No_."

The agent stares at her. "Ma'am, this could be our only chance."

"If we neuter him now, he'll be useless."

"He'll be_ harmless_."

Angela frowns. "Keep Sylar under. Switch drugs, give him a lethal dose—anything to keep him from waking."

"And then?"

"You'll await orders."

"Yes, ma'am."

The antique grandfather clock in the corner chimes the hour. Angela gives a dismissive wave of her hand. The agent turns to leave.

"Ma'am?"

Angela looks up, only to see the man paused at the door.

"Yes, agent?"

He meets her level gaze. "D-1…he can't heal, ma'am, not like before. He should have medical attention. The confrontation with Sylar did not go without incident."

Angela purses her lips and swivels her chair around so she is facing out the window. "We expected nothing less," she admits quietly.

She closes her eyes a moment, and then faces the waiting agent again. Gives him a tight smile.

"D-1 will be fine. He's strong. After all, he's my son."

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**A/N: Just wanted to get this posted, so I apologize for grammatical errors where they might occur. I'll go through and fix this up later.**


	5. Void

D-1 lies silently on the wet floor. His bare chest rises and falls in a slow, painful rhythm.

For a change, the frigid concrete almost feels good against his skin, although D-1 is certain nothing can stop the burning he feels on his forehead. When he moves, warm blood pulses anew from the wound, creating a diluted red halo on the ground around his head.

He resolves to be a still as possible. Tries not to listen. Tries not to think.

He can't avoid either option.

He hears the other man's voice in his head. The one that practical growled '_hello.'_

D-1's recollection of the salutation, and his resulting…_introduction_, is painfully vivid.

_Sweat. Heavy breathing. Then blinding lights. Cracked walls sprayed with bullet holes. Bodies of strewn about. And a lone figure standing in the room. Tall. Dark. Waiting. Calls him Peter. _

_Peter. _

D-1 continues to tread through the memory.

_He's thrown impossibly hard, but never physically touched. Throttled. The stranger approaches, arm extended before him. A filthy black shirt clings to his lean frame. He's been through hell too. Glares at his victim. Begins the cut…_

D-1 opens his eyes and flips over onto his stomach. He gags, even though he has nothing in his system. Beneath his fingertips, his reflection wavers in the bloody pool.

It is not an old face that stares back at him. The lines aren't deep enough around the eyes yet. Chocolate brown eyes, almost black in the low light. Hopelessly tangled hair. High cheekbones stained burgundy.

His near-killer had recognized him—had called him a name other than theirs. And without hesitation or a sign of regret, that man had tried to kill him.

D-1 screams and pushes himself off the ground. He extends his hand toward the door. Nothing happens. He can't explain the futile action, or the instinct behind it. The sudden movement and loss of blood bring him to his knees again, his consciousness waning.

He wants to die. Sooner rather than later. His curls his fingers into a fist. Unbeknownst to him, outside his cell door, a pebble moves in response.


	6. Reflections

Angela Petrelli sits on the edge of her bed, gazing out the floor to ceiling penthouse window. The white sheer curtains flutter and open, revealing the night lights of skyscrapers and cars below. The city below is full of people, action and life. But she is alone. Very, very, alone.

If she strains, she can make out the dim blare of car horns, the creak of the stairs as the housekeeper descends, and the hiss of the kettle signaling the tea is ready. But it is silent in her lavish bedroom, and she hates it.

Angela frowns, her hands twisting the rosary beads restlessly. Her eldest son failed to return latest call, damn him. Nathan was loyal, but only when it was convenient for him. A lesson she had imparted too well, regrettably. His younger brother, however…

Her breathing changes. Peter. Dear, sweet Peter. He had stayed in the background so Nathan could step into the light. Peter was compassionate to a fault. Always willing to please.

Traits of weakness, her husband would have said. But how could they have known that Peter would become greater than them all?

_And she cast him away_. She hates herself for it.

Angela rises and walks to the laptop sitting open on her nightstand. Setting aside her rosary, her fingers dance over the keys.

The company logo flashes on the screen. _Uplink complete_. Angela hits _Enter_. Hundreds of letters and numbers appear before her. She pauses as she scrolls down to the D section.

She holds her breath. Clicks on the link.

There's static for a moment, and then the camera feed goes through. Peter. _Her Peter_. A sleeping figure in white lying in a pool of red.

It's a horrific sight.

Angela tears her gaze away from the screen. Her gaze falls on the 15th century Virgin Mary painting hanging above the bed. For a moment, Angela believes she understands the Virgin's tears as she holds her son's lifeless body.

Her frown returns. There had to be a great sacrifice in order to have a greater reward. Surely, her own sins would be forgiven.

_Wouldn't they?_

Angela looks back at her son's face. He's pale almost beyond recognition. It is easy to pick out Sylar's handiwork. The horrible gash will take months to fully heal, she realizes, maybe longer. And the resulting scar…

It is her sacrifice. _Peter's sacrifice._ He will understand in time. Suffering is part of life, as she well knows.

Peter shifts his position. His disheveled dark hair flops over his forehead, and for a moment, he looks like the youthful boy she remembers. Tears start to prick her eyes. Angela cuts the camera feed and goes back to the main catalog. Attempts to regain her composure.

On a whim, she clicks on another link. The camera zooms in a clean white room with a patient lying on a table. A dozen armed guards have guns pointed at him.

Sylar, _that bastard_. It is time she paid him a visit.

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**A/N: **hehe next chapter should be fun. I really appreciate the feedback! Keep it coming--it helps motivate me! :)


	7. The Meeting

Armed guards circle around her. Angela glares at the agent in charge. "Good heavens, stand them down. I can do this alone."

After a tense moment, the agent turns and nods at one of the guards. The guns lower slowly and exit the cell one by one. Angela gives the head agent a tense smile. He turns and follows his men.

Alone at last. It's silent, save for the steady beep registering Sylar's pulse.

The cell is a stark white room, and at its center, Sylar lies naked on a metal table. A titanium bar fits across his chest, while two other titanium cuffs are locked around his wrists and ankles. IV lines on either side of him leak their contents into either arm. The skin around the catheters is a blotchy red and purple. He's unusually pale.

Angela focuses her gaze on his features. _So calm…handsome even_, she realizes. Her cheeks flush. _Back to business_.

"Hello, Sylar."

His eyelids snap open. The lights flicker overhead. Angela wants to believe that it is just a random unrelated electrical surge, but she knows better.

She steps closer to the table. Tries to ignore the youthful, masculine curves of its occupant.

Sylar's fingers twitch. _He's still fighting_, she realizes. She cannot fault him for it. Honestly, it's rather exhilarating to watch a cornered animal snarl.

Angela stops and the head of the table and leans down, her lips tantalizingly close to Sylar's ear.

"Before you opt to treat me as you did my son, I must remind you that my death will serve you no benefit. You are in the lion's den."

Sylar doesn't answer. His mind, like his body, is numb. Reality and dreams are indistinct. But he listens.

"I can stop this. I can get them to let you go," Angela purrs.

Sylar blinks and stares at the ceiling. This was the sensation he remembered as a kid before having a cavity filled. The dentist hooked him up to the gas, told him to breath slowly in and out, and then…this.

He recognizes Angela's voice, her presence somewhere in the fog.

"You can do what other people only dream of doing," Angela continues, "you are unique."

_Yes, he is. Was. Long live the cheerleader. _

Angela runs her fingers through his dark hair. Sylar closes his eyes, almost as she would expect a cat.

"There are others out there—others that don't have your control. They are dangerous, foolish. I need someone with your abilities to subdue them." Her hand traces along the curve of his neck to his jaw line.

_Someone with my abilities_. Sylar feels his way through the mental haze. _There aren't many._

"Help me, Sylar, and I will help you."

_Bullets. Starvation. Imprisonment. Petrelli. _

_Peter._

The haze disappears. Eyes wide, Sylar bucks against the titanium bars. The catheter strains and pulls out his arm. Warm blood seeps onto the table.

"Where…am I?" he growls. God only knows how much time has elapsed, he seethes.

Angela tries to slow her racing heartbeat. The discarded IV lines continue to pulse fluid onto the floor. She takes a deep breath and grabs Sylar's arm threateningly. His blood oozes between her fingers.

"Yes or no, Sylar. I'm not playing games."

_Neither is he._ Sylar glares at her, recalls her worthless flattery and request. He will not be her pawn.

"I..have…no…intention… of ever…helping…you." It takes effort to cough out each word. He continues to struggle against the restraints. Angela's eyes narrow. Her grip tightens painfully on his arm.

She smiles daggers. "I have the power to strip everything from you that you hold dear and ensure that you will never regain it. You will be inconsequential. "

The table begins to shake. The bars creak in protest. _Oh God, he's healing_, Angela realizes. She drops his arm and backs away. Hits the intercom on the wall.

"Get in here, now!" she orders, and heads for the door.

Sylar opens his hand. Angela finds herself sliding backwards toward him.

"Sylar!" she yells. The invisible pull stops as the guards come pouring into the room. Angela strides back toward the table and hits Sylar as hard as she can. _For Peter. For herself. Because she hates and desires this animal._ Sylar's head snaps back against the table.

The agent jabs the catheter and IV line back into his flesh.

"What's in the IV?" Angela pants. Her hand stings.

The agent keeps his gaze on Sylar. "Propoflo at the moment."

Angela turns the drip up the maximum rate. The heart monitor's pulses slow. Sylar's gaze clouds over. The long beep sounds as he flat lines. The agent stares wide-eyed at her.

"Pump him full of embalming fluid for all I care," Angela snaps. "Just keep him like this."

She exits the room. Two guards escort her. As she walks, she looks down. Sylar's blood drips from her fingertips.


	8. The Agent

The rookie agent sweeps a few stray strands of blond hair back behind her shoulder and adjusts her position behind her desk. Blinks once, twice as she continues to stare at the monitors. She really didn't expect these long hours, but then again, what else would she be doing right now, out there in the real world? Going to classes? Beer pong? Dating, God forbid?

No, she is better off here, she decides. The young agent glances down at her nametag. _Claire Bennet_. It feels good to have her name on display. There is no hiding here. No aliases. Everyone knows who she is and what she can do. It is perhaps the only place where her burden can be lifted. But that is their power over her, and they know it.

Her position here is not without its controversy, however. Her parents vehemently fought against her presence in the Company. It was her grandmother who stepped in to her benefit. Claire could still remember the heated conversation between the Petrelli matriarch and her adoptive father.

"_Claire will be make exceptional agent and be well protected and trained. She is safer with us than out there, Noah. Stop making her run."_

"_She's not ready. Please, I don't want her to see everything that goes on here."_

"_You make it sound like an institution. Really, Noah. Claire's ability can and should be used. What can they do to her? She is more powerful than them all."_

"_You know that isn't true."_

"_Perhaps. But that's why we need her more than ever."_

That was six months ago. Six months and the only action that she had seen at the Company was typing on a keyboard and monitoring a few prisoners. They're murders, her superiors tell her. Felons. Powerful. Dangerous to society.

_People like her. _

She looks around the room. It's empty, the other agents having gone home hours ago. Claire types a few commands and waits for the image. She wants to gag when she sees it, and she is no stranger to gore.

Peter doesn't deserve this. Half naked, lying in a cell with conditions only rivaled by that of a gulag. He's so still, she's not sure if he is awake or dead. Her Peter. Beloved protector. Reduced to this. No memories, no abilities.

_Her first briefing was about him. Claire saw Peter through the infirmary window, lying asleep peacefully. This is for his own good, she was told. Peter simply became too dangerous, too unpredictable. The risk was too great. Can you handle your assignment? Angela was blunt. _

Claire closes her eyes at the memory. To her everlasting shame, she accepted it. Became a Company puppet at Peter's expense so that she could remain free.

_But you really aren't, are you?_ she thinks. _The only difference between me and him is that I'm sitting at a desk fully clothed._

Claire shuts off the monitor and rises from her station. She is under strict orders not to approach the cell block under any circumstances. Not that she feels that it matters much anymore. The most two powerful detainees, prisoners…whatever the hell they want her to call them…they are there because of her.

She doesn't give a damn about _orders_ right now.

Claire makes her way to the cafeteria. She slips a few coins into the vending machine and punches in the numbers. A candy bar falls down. She pauses, then adds more coins in and hits the same combination.

Grabbing her loot, she heads for the security door. _Top clearance only_. She looks down at her ID badge. Six months and she has followed every command. Obedience—and bloodlines—have their benefit. She slides the ID through the sensor. Waits.

It lights up green and the door latch snaps open. Claire steps through.

* * *

There are no maps or ID markers to guide her progress. Claire removes her heels and walks barefoot through the halls to minimize the sound of her presence. The concrete is freezing. She feels another pang of empathy for Peter.

She is sure that she has made a few wrong turns. The cell blocks are all modified differently, depending on the abilities of their occupants, or so she is told. The "strongest" cells are also, ironically, the least modern. Old-fashioned torture and thick walls worked better than anyone could have ever predicted.

Claire hears footsteps, and then the distinct clap of heels against the floor. She presses her body against the wall and holds her breath. The sound comes closer.

"Go back. I'll be fine from here," Angela commands. Claire bites her lower lip. What excuse can she give her grandmother? She is searching for the bathroom?

To her relief, the echoes separate and begin to dim. Claire waits until she cannot hear them at all before she removes herself from her hiding spot. Gingerly, she continues toward the direction she heard Angela coming from.

The floor begins to slant downwards again, taking her further and further from ground level. Claire moves forward. Her heart pounds in her chest. Everything is muffled, and yet distinct. The beep of a monitor somewhere behind her. Pounding. A scream.

Claire presses forward. _His cell would be quiet_, she reasons. She walks until she hits a dead end. Her breath clouds in front of her, and she can no longer repress the shivers.

_He should have been here_. Her brow furrows as she turns to make her way back.

_Look up_. Claire can't explain the impulse, or why one burnt out light would stand out in this derelict place. She stops under it. Lost in the shadows, she sees the outline of a windowless, unlabeled door. No wonder she missed it the first time. Every other cell is on the opposite side of the hallway.

This one is special. _This one is his_.

"I'm here, Peter," she whispers.

She slides her ID badge through the sensor and pulls on the handle. It heaves open.


	9. Closer

D-1 wakes at the sound of his cell door opening, but he doesn't stir. He doesn't care enough anymore.

He feels someone hoist up his shoulders. Warmth. Vanilla scented perfume. Perhaps it's a dream.

"Can you hear me? Please wake up."

He opens his eyes. A beautiful stranger is looking at him. He almost smiles.

"Good, you're alive," she sighs. She glances up at the camera. "It's only a matter of time before they check and see that I'm gone." He can feel her arm tense around him. _So they fear the same people._

Her hand brushes across his shoulder. It's heavenly. Her voice chokes up. "I'm so sorry I let this happen. I'm so sorry."

"Who are you?" D-1 murmurs.

"It doesn't matter. Here, eat this." She rips open the candy bar wrapper with her teeth and places the chocolate in his hand. He looks at it strangely.

"Aren't you hungry?" she presses.

He nods. "I think so…I…"

He can't focus on food, or anything except her large blue eyes. They have tears in them.

The young woman breaks off a small piece of the chocolate and eases it past his lips. It's the most intimate contact he's had in…_God, he can't even remember_. He chews it slowly.

Her fingers hesitantly trace along his cheek, and then just above the gash on his forehead. He feels her breathing change, and he pulls away.

"What is it?"

She shakes her head. "It's just…I know how it feels."

Her cryptic phrase somehow bothers him, and he hands back the remaining candy bar. "I don't think I can eat anymore."

She doesn't argue. D-1 watches her stand. He rises with her. "Please tell me who you are," he pleads, "and how you know me."

The young woman glances at the open door and backs away from him. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Sorry for what?" He's shaky on his feet, but he advances toward her. "Sorry for what?" he repeats, louder this time.

She's nearly at the door. "I have to go."

He extends his hand. The door slams shut in response. The hallway begins to glow with pulsing red lights.

She pales. "How did you do that?!"

D-1 shrugs. "I don't know…I…"

"Oh, God, it failed."

"What failed?"

"Everything!"

He can hear footsteps now. Many of them. With strength he didn't know he had, D-1 grabs her arm and pushes her against her wall. His body covers hers.

"You know what they're going to do," he urges, shaking her shoulders. "Please tell me who I am, why this is happening?"

Tears stream from her eyes. "It's over for me," she cries. "They'll blame me for this."

"For what?!"

The footsteps are outside the door now. The lock clicks open.

She grabs his neck and pulls his head toward her. Her lips press hard against his. D-1's too shocked by the foreign sensation to move, to think, to breathe. She pulls away abruptly.

"I love y—"

There's a loud bang. She falls against him, a bullet hole in her head.

D-1 shudders as he stares into her unseeing eyes. She knows him. _Knew him_. And now she's gone. They drag her limp body out of his arms.

"Don't," he begs. He surges forward after her. His chest and neck are splattered with her blood.

"Get back," someone orders. He doesn't. A second later, he's swept to the ground. "No!" he screams futilely, his arm outstretched towards her. The guards surround him. He feels the familiar needle pierce his neck, the same place her hands had touched him only moments before. D-1 shudders and relaxes in his captor's hold.

* * *

Angela Petrelli pulls her phone out of her purse. Let it be Nathan, she prays. Glances at the caller ID. Restricted number.

Frowning, she answers. "What is it?"

"Sorry to interrupt you, Ma'am. There was an incident."

_Just what she needs._

"What happened?" Angela commands tersely.

"Agent Bennet entered D-1's cell and alarm was triggered. They're reviewing the video footage as we speak."

"Claire or Noah?"

"Claire."

Despite herself, Angela almost breathes a sigh of relief. _That man is such a loose cannon these days, _she thinks._  
_

"Did you take care of her?"

"She was fatally shot."

Well, sort of, Angela smirks. Never mind the details. "Pete—_D-1_ saw this occur?" she continues.

"Yes, it was front on him."

"Good. Her current status?"

"Ready for entry to the library, on your orders."

Angela sighs. "She had so much promise, foolish girl. Find someone to permanently take her place. I can't have Noah finding out about this hiccup."

"Understood, Ma'am."

Angela hits END on the call. "Stop at the corner, please," she commands the taxi driver. The pale light of morning begins to seep through the windows. It has been a long, sleepless night. Today isn't looking much better.

* * *

The senior agent rubs his eyes and watches the scenario unfold again on the screen. Claire enters the cell. Gives D-1 food. He presses her for information. She panics. Then she's at the door, poised to leave, and it slams shut.

He hit rewind and watched those few seconds again. Claire had no reason to lock herself in with him.

Well…

The agent hits stop before he has to watch that brief, desperate kiss unfold again. Better not inform the boss about that one. The Petrelli family has enough issues as it is.

He will have to bury his suspicions until later.

"Sir?"

He turns the monitor off and faces a perfect incarnation of Agent Claire Bennet.

"You understand this is a long term assignment?" he asks.

"Of course." Even the voice is spot-on.

"Did you get a chance to review the video footage of their interaction?"

"Yes, sir."

"_All of it_?"

Her eye contact breaks for a second.

"Should I expect—that level of affection?" she asks.

The agent stands and adjusts the cuffs on his suit jacket. He doesn't look at her.

"Just do your job, agent."

She nods and strides off purposefully.

* * *

**A/N**: So I introduced...and killed off Claire (sort of). :) This will not be a Peter/Claire pairing story (although I have read and enjoyed several fics with that pairing), but given the level of attraction that's ever-present between the two, a kiss seemed fairly appropriate and innocent. I don't think the incest-tones are enough to change the rating (yet). And fear not, Peter's suffering at the hands of his authoress's masochistic tendencies can't last forever.


	10. Lies

"How are you feeling?"

Something warm is touching his arm. D-1 shudders and blinks. It can't be her. His vision is blurry.

"Shhhh, it's ok."

_Soft lips. Vanilla. Blond hair swept over her shoulder. _

Pushing aside his indistinct memories, D-1 rubs his eyes and staggers backwards until his back hits the wall. Tries to focus. But the face haunting his dreams is somehow still staring back at him.

"No," he croaks. He clears his throat. "I watched you die."

The young woman's intense gaze searches his face. "You thought you did. It's protocol that they shoot intruders." She gives him forced smile. "I can heal very quickly."

D-1 stares at her dumbfounded. "That's impossible."

"Not for me. But for you…"

She reaches forward and sweeps a warm hand over his forehead. He winces involuntarily at her touch. Odd, it didn't bother him last time. The gash from Sylar's handiwork is still painfully raw. She glances up to the camera. They are watching. Her acting—and D-1's acceptance of it—could make or break her future with the Company.

"Do you feel any better since I saw you last?" she asks. Her hand drops back to her side.

D-1's eyes narrow. He ignores her question. "You were shot last time you came to me." He waves a hand at the camera's direction. "Don't they know?"

"I took more precautions this time," she says, almost too quickly. She tries to rebound. "They can't see us. I jammed the link."

She can tell by the hard line of his mouth that he doesn't buy it. Not for a minute. She needs a distraction, and quickly.

"You don't remember me, do you?" she stammers.

_No shit, Sherlock_, D-1 wants to say, but doesn't. "Just from the last time."

"That's too bad," she reaches towards him again, and he lets her. Her fingers graze his bare chest. The tingling sensation is intoxicating. He doesn't want to think. He wants to drown in it.

She moves closer to him, her hand moving dangerously low on his abdomen. "I told you last time that I loved you," the agent begins, recalling the video. Her fingers stop at the hem of his sodden white pants. Little modesty has been preserved, and his natural response makes her smile.

"What they don't want me to tell you," she breathes against his ear, "is that you loved me too."

D-1 stops breathing.

He thinks he can feel her lips against his neck. He isn't sure. His heartbeat is thudding too loud in his ears. Something deep inside of him is screaming. It's all wrong.

"Who am I?" he asks quietly, and tilts his head towards hers. Her exploring lips and hands pull away.

"This isn't enough?" she asks. Whines, practically. He frowns.

D-1 grabs her shoulders. "Tell me!" he yells. His voice echoes in the room.

Her eyes go wide. She tries to back away but can't.

"Let me go!" after another moment of struggling, she sighs and looks away from him.

"Fine, you really want to know?"

D-1 waits.

Almost imperceptibly, her eyes flick up toward the camera again. Asking permission. D-1 pretends he doesn't notice.

At last, she speaks. Her voice is like steel.

"You're name is Sylar. You're a serial killer."

* * *

**A/N: I live! Not sure if anyone is still reading this, but I thought it was worth an update anyway. Still sticking to the vignette style, but more to come soon. Feedback always welcomed!**


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